Ma Mère est la République
by Ravariel
Summary: Enjolras, seeking to become a true son of the Republic, finds that being a friend of the abased is very different from being one of them. Unfinished, and may remain so.
1. Chapter 1

It was cold. Enjolras braced himself as he slid from standing to kneeling to sitting, and finally to lying on the stone floor for his first night in prison. He tensed his muscles. He didn't want to curl up into the fetal position, the position of the weak and helpless. He didn't—

But the prison was dark, he reminded himself. No one could see him.

So he curled his body and hugged his legs, hoping to preserve body heat. His back was pressed against the stone wall; eventually that would be better than being in the middle of the cell. But his thin shirt—he had been stripped of his overcoat—let all the coldness of the wall through.

It was cold, cold. Enjolras was miserable.

_But I am here for my mother,_ he thought._ Here for my country._

So he began to hum, and then sing softly.

_Si César m'avait donné  
La gloire et la guerre  
Et qu'il me fallût quitter  
L'amour de ma mère  
Je dirais au grand César,  
Reprends ton sceptre et ton char  
J'aime mieux ma mère, ô gué !  
J'aime__mieux__ ma __mère__._

His breath warmed his hands, so he sang it again.

_If Caesar gave me  
Glory and war  
And for it I must leave  
The love of my mother  
I would say to grand Caesar,  
Take back your scepter and chariot!  
I love my mother more, alas!  
I love my mother more._

"Ma mère est la République," he whispered, as he faded off to sleep. "My mother is the Republic."


	2. Chapter 2

A thud, and a sharp pain in his side. Enjolras cringed before he could remind himself of his self-discipline. He opened his eyes and sat up, then arranged his face into its typical expression of polite disdain as he looked at the guard who stood over him. "What is it, _citoyen_?"

This time he saw the kick coming. "On your feet, young dog, and watch your tongue."

Enjolras rose slowly, keeping steady eyes on the guard. "I addressed you as a fellow citizen, monsieur. That is a word of courtesy and not of insult."

"It's the word of a revolutionary!" The guard shook a fist, his voice low and poisonous. "If you were my prisoner, boy, I'd horsewhip the revolutionary out of you. But no; no, you're the captain's prisoner, and he wants to play nice. So if you'll just hold out your wrists, monsieur, I'll tie you with a thread and escort you to his office."

It was warmer upstairs. Enjolras fought against the exhaustion that he was just now becoming aware of. How long had he slept? It couldn't have been long.

They halted by a door, and the guard shoved Enjolras one final time before opening it. "Captain?"

The slim, dark-haired man inside at the desk looked up and acknowledged the guard's salute. He looked young for an officer, barely forty, and his eyes, when he turned them to Enjolras, seemed almost gentle. "You are the revolutionary?"

Enjolras squared his shoulders and stood tall. "I am."

The captain shuffled through some papers. "And of the illustrious Enjolras family? That seems a contradiction."

"My family has broken with me. I have nothing of them but their name."

"None of their money?"

Enjolras glanced down at his worn clothes. "They offered it only until I told them I would use it for the people's cause."

"None of their backing?"

"If you are asking whether they would offer bail for me—" Enjolras examined the captain's face—"they might, but I would not accept it."

The captain shook his head. "Bail has never been an option for imprisoned revolutionaries. But you have made me curious, young man. Why poverty when you could have had wealth? Why struggle when you could have had happiness and why—" he gestured to the room around him—"prison when freedom was so easy to keep?"

"Monsieur, you know little of freedom if you call it easy to keep. There is nothing easy about freedom, and one cannot keep what one does not have."

The captain held up his hand. "I revoke the question." He looked at the guard. "Untie the young man and let him sit down."

The guard, muttering insults under his breath, did as ordered. He came close to slamming the door when the captain dismissed him. Enjolras sat slowly.

"Tell me your name, my boy, and explain why you're here."

"My name is Enjolras—"

"I know that much. Your Christian name?"

"It is never used."

"Nevertheless, tell me. I need it for records."

"Louis Marie-Antoine Alexandre."

"Quite a name. And all of it royalist, eh? except Alexandre."

"Alexandre is my father's name, and I am not proud to bear it. It is what I was called as a child. But as I said, none of it is ever used."

"Well, if my name were Maximilien Georges-Jacques, I wouldn't use it either. Why are you here, Louis Marie-Antoine Alexandre Enjolras?"

"I am charged with inciting insurrection."

"Guilty or innocent?"

"Both, for the charge is inaccurate but not inappropriate. No insurrection took place, nor was it my intention, but the words I spoke have caused insurrection before."

"One or the other."

Enjolras took a deep breath and lifted his chin. "Guilty."

The captain stared at him. "For God's sake, why? You are more innocent than guilty, from what you said, and you could easily plead innocent. You are still a boy—"

"You cannot use that excuse, monsieur; I am twenty-two."

"Strange, you could pass for seventeen. _Eh __bien_, you are not a boy, but you are young, and you are a first-time offender—"

"You cannot use that excuse either. I have been here before, and it is recorded."

He shuffled through his papers. "Yes, there it is, a minor notation…'found in the company of a known political troublemaker.'" The captain looked up. "That is easily forgotten. How long were you here?"

"Early afternoon to nearly midnight."

"Public or solitary?"

"Public."

The captain turned to his papers again. "Hmm, why solitary this time, I wonder?"

"Because soon after I was released a number of non-political prisoners began to express revolutionary views."

"Ah, so you're dangerous."

Enjolras allowed himself a hint of a smile. "You might say that."

"Still," the captain said, "easily forgotten. Plead innocent."

"I will not."

"Why?"

"Because I am proud to own the Revolution."

The captain rose, frustrated. "You're too young to even understand the Revolution, boy. Give it up."

"Never."

"Not even for your freedom?"

"Monsieur, I have told you, I am still looking for that freedom. Freedom that comes at the cost of convictions is no freedom."

"For your friends then? They must be worried about you."

"All my friends are of my same mind."

The captain sighed. "Do you love your mother?"

"I do."

"For her, then. Have a heart, boy!"

Slowly, gravely, Enjolras rose and met the captain's eyes. "My mother is the Republic."

The captain's eyes smoldered for a moment. Then he exploded. "Idiot!" he shouted. "Idiot! You're going to get yourself killed!"

"If it advances the cause of freedom, so be it!" Enjolras replied.

Their eyes locked. Enjolras felt the heat of his passion blazing in his face. If only this man would understand!

But the captain's face had grown hard, and his voice was bitter as he shook his head. "I tried, boy. I tried, but you've sentenced yourself."

A group of soldiers came in. The captain spoke to them in a level voice.

"He's yours. I will not be calling for him again."

Enjolras closed his eyes briefly for composure, neither struggling nor succumbing as the soldiers roughly bound him. Then he fixed his gaze on the captain one last time.

"It is you who have sentenced yourself, _citoyen_. To tyranny."

Notes:  
1. I don't really care for the very first part. It's not what I meant it to be, but all the same I don't really know what I did mean it to be, so I can't really fix it right now….hopefully I'll discover how later.  
2. AmZ—this part is longer. The other one just seemed to break there…sorry.  
3. ColonelDespard—I am trying to learn as much as I can about the French prison system. There really isn't much that's readily available, unfortunately.  
4. Enjolras' name—Louis is the name of a number of French kings and Marie-Antoine is from Marie Antoinette, thus making them royalist names. And yes, strange as it may be, French males did often have "Marie" in their names. I like Alexandre, even if he doesn't, because it means "defender of the people."  
5. The captain's response—George-Jacques is the first name of Danton and Maximilien the first name of Robespierre, two infamous revolutionaries.

I hope you enjoyed this. It's not over but it's as far as I've actually written.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: All right, I'm making an attempt at including the other amis…hope I don't butcher anybody's favorite; I feel much more connected with Enjolras than with the others. And I realize it's been a while—over Christmas break, which was long, I had no internet on the computer I write on :( so no updates. Very sorry, if anybody was looking for one, and I hope you enjoy.

Courfeyrac strode into the Café Musain. Noise was coming from the back room…more noise than usual, it seemed. He listened a moment before entering. Obnoxious, forced laughter. Frustrated argument.

Something was wrong.

He went in. His friends sprang up to greet him, eagerness and disappointment both on their faces.

Then Courfeyrac realized the problem.

"He's not here?" he asked.

"Again," said Combeferre.

Courfeyrac shook his head as he looked at their faces. "You worry too much, all of you."

"But what would he be doing?" asked Bahorel.

"Studying, perhaps. He's a student too, you know."

"He studies after meetings," protested Combeferre. "Missing once for extra work is a remote possibility. But twice?"

"He's ill," said Joly.

"Two days ago," protested Combeferre again, "he was in perfect health and planning to rally support in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau."

"Saint-Marceau," said L'aigle, "but there's a police headquarters down there."

There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Courfeyrac spoke.

"So we have our answer," he said. "Enjolras has been arrested."

Another silence, then an uproar. Courfeyrac moved to a table and poured himself a glass of wine. He was starting to get a headache. The answer he had proposed wasn't a certainty, but the more he considered, the more it began to look like one.

And it was not a reassuring certainty to have.

Then the door burst open and there was a letter. Courfeyrac snatched it and ripped it open, for he recognized the writing, uneven and shaky though it was.

The note was cramped onto a slip of paper, torn in one corner. He read it hastily.

Courfeyrac, I have been arrested and am detained for an unknown length of time. Tell mes amis to continue their activities whether or not I can participate, and to bring me supplies as soon as possible. I have money in my room. Use it. Enjolras.

At the bottom was an address. Courfeyrac memorized it.

When he looked up everyone was gathered around him once again. He showed them the note and it passed from hand to hand.

"He didn't sign it," said Jehan softly. "He didn't sign _Vive la __République__._"

L'aigle took the note from him. "He did, actually," he replied. "But it got torn off." He pointed to some strokes of ink by the torn corner. "It was right there. Vive la République."

Grantaire peered over L'aigle's shoulder. "What does he mean, bring him supplies?"

"It's the responsibility of a prisoner's friends and family to bring him food and clothing," said Combeferre. "If he wants anything at all from the guards, he'll have to pay them. He'd even have had to pay to send this note."

"And as he never carries much money," said Courfeyrac, "we had better go to him as soon as possible."

Enjolras shifted his weight. He was trying to lean against the wall, but that was hard to do when he had one wrist chained to the wrist of a stubborn guard who sat comfortably on a chair almost two feet away from the wall. Being a closely-guarded prisoner in the public area was far more difficult than being in solitary. It was noisy and dirty and crowded. Sleep was hard to get, and he couldn't even talk to anyone. Making any noise that his guard deemed unnecessary led to being gagged for hours. Sometimes it also led to another bruise on his already battered body.

After his visit to the captain, he had been the soldiers' plaything for what seemed like hours. They had kicked and hit him long past the point that he thought he would lose consciousness. Then he had been dragged here.

That was yesterday. He had little memory of the rest of the day. But in the morning he had asked to be allowed to write a note. Between his repeated requests and most of the money he was carrying, he was given paper and pen by evening and told that the note would be delivered.

All this time he had eaten nothing.

So this is what it's like, he reflected bitterly. This is what it's like not to be a friend of _les __abaissés_—but one of them.

But he had no strength to philosophize further. It was getting more and more difficult to ignore his body's cries of weariness, hunger, and pain. But Courfeyrac would come soon. Probably tonight. Oh, he hoped it would be tonight. He had been too proud to let his desperation show in his note, but it was there, and he knew—

He needed help tonight.

A prison warden came in with a tray of bread and a bucket of water. Five sous for a ladle of water and ten for a piece of bread. Ridiculous fees, but Enjolras dug furiously in his pocket.

Twelve sous.

When the warden came to him, he gave him five for water. Nobody could live without water. Then he looked at the seven small coins left in his hand.

He should save them for water tomorrow.

But just now, he didn't care what would happen tomorrow. He held up the seven sous.

"Please," he said weakly. "Please, part of a piece?"

The warden considered. Then he took one of the smaller pieces of bread, ripped it into three parts, and gave Enjolras the smallest.

It was an injustice. Enjolras had paid almost two-thirds of the price. Normally, he would have refused it entirely. Justice or nothing, he would have said.

But he didn't. He took it.

And as he sat eating it as slowly as he could, he wondered only one thing.

_Why haven't my friends come?_

"What do you mean, we can't until morning?" Courfeyrac demanded. "That's ridiculous!"

"It's the rules, monsieur," said the young soldier standing behind the desk. "No visitors and no deliveries after seven o'clock."

Combeferre glared daggers at him. "Why?" he demanded.

Grantaire managed a fairly daunting glare as well. "Yes, why?" he echoed.

The soldier shrugged. "I don't make the rules. Just uphold them."

"And why would you uphold a rule with no basis?" Combeferre asked.

"Why would you assume that a rule has no basis simply because that basis is not readily apparent?" the soldier countered.

Courfeyrac shifted the packages he carried. "We need to give these to him."

"I can't let you."

"Then can we see him at least?"

"No, I can't let you."

Combeferre interrupted. "Can you give him a note?"

The soldier considered. "I don't know. It would be a delivery, technically speaking…"

"But what if we don't speak technically?" Grantaire flashed two gold coins.

"I don't take bribes," the soldier said firmly.

Combeferre pushed Grantaire's coins back into his pocket. "And we don't give them," he replied. "But if you see our friend, would you tell him we're coming? You can't miss him, really. He's big and blond, very hard not to see. Enjolras is the name."

The soldier looked interested. "The revolutionary?"

Courfeyrac let himself smile. "That would be him."

After glancing both ways, the soldier beckoned them closer. "Come back first thing in the morning if you can," he said. "Your friend is in pretty bad shape. They say the captain tried to help him and he refused, so the captain was angry and handed him over to the worst set of guards in the whole place. It's just rumor, but all the same—"

"We'll be back," Combeferre assured him. "What time?"

"Seven," the soldier said. "And don't worry. If I see him, I'll be sure to tell him you're coming."

They thanked him. As they turned to leave, they heard a call.

"Dubois! Léon Dubois! Your desk-time's up and you're taking your turn with the revolutionary!"

Léon Dubois, the soldier to whom they had been talking, made sure they caught his smile before heading off.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: An attempt at writing Enjolras from an OC observer's point of view. Partly for the challenge and partly because Enjolras needed someone to talk to…I have a tendency to make characters sit and think too much and am trying to work on it. Reviews are very happy things :D

Léon's heart lurched when he saw the big, blond prisoner sitting crumpled on the floor, one arm elevated awkwardly by the chain on his wrist. When the guard saw Léon, he stood up eagerly, jerking the arm further upward.

"So you're the one they've sent for the dull job, are you?" he said, unlocking the shackle he wore. "Well, have fun for the next four hours."

Léon forced a chuckle. "I'll try," he said. "Any special instructions?"

The guard thought. "Well, he's not to talk to any of the other prisoners, which isn't too hard since it's late and they're mostly asleep. You chain your left wrist to his right."

Léon looked at the revolutionary's wrist, worn red by its chain. "But I'm left-handed," he said.

"That's a bother. Well, you'll want to switch the shackle, then. Here's the key. Put this one on his left wrist before you take the other off his right. Don't think there's anything else."

Léon thanked him and he went hurriedly away. Gently, Léon shook Enjolras' shoulder and took his wrists. He locked the chain onto Enjolras' left wrist, then took the other end and locked it to his own right.

"Come sit against the wall with me," he said to his prisoner.

Enjolras lifted his head slowly and gave him a long, strange look. Léon felt like he was being read. When the searching ended, Enjolras shifted carefully and leaned against the wall. Then he sighed, a deep, weary sigh.

Léon sat against the wall also, separated from Enjolras only by the six inches that their chain allowed them. He reached up with his free left hand and clumsily undid his tight collar button. Enjolras was looking at him again.

"You can talk if you want," Léon said. "I mean, they only told me you couldn't talk to the other prisoners, and I'm not a prisoner."

Enjolras barely smiled. "You're not left-handed."

Léon colored. "I am to a degree. I can write or shoot with my left hand."

"But not smoothly unbutton a button."

"I don't usually have to undo buttons when I'm pretending to be left-handed." He looked across at Enjolras' right hand. "How's your wrist?"

Enjolras gave a noncommittal shrug. "It was shackled for twenty-four hours."

"And your face?" There were several blue and purple bruises across his cheek and eye.

Enjolras just leaned his head back against the wall.

"It looks pretty bad."

"It is," Enjolras finally admitted, his voice quiet and emotionless.

But there was nothing to be done about that.

"Your name is Enjolras, isn't it?" Léon asked.

He nodded. "Alexandre Enjolras."

"And I guess you mean to live up to your name, then? Defender of the people?"

Enjolras glanced at him again, then turned his gaze upward. "I didn't know that. But yes, I want to be the people's defender. Liberator, even. And yes, I know I will never be the only or the greatest. To be one is all I ask." His eyes came back to Léon's. "That has been my only prayer for many years. To take the world one step closer to justice before I die."

The simple words burned in Léon. He thought of all the injustices he had ever seen—and suddenly, he wanted revolution too.

"And you," said Enjolras, "what is your name?"

"Léon," he said.

"Do you aim to live up to your name as well?"

Léon considered. "To be a lion? I suppose I never thought of it." Then he remembered what he had been supposed to tell Enjolras. "Oh, I forgot. Some friends of yours were here."

His head jerked around to Léon. "They _were_?"

Léon nodded. "But it was too late for them to be allowed in. They're coming back, though. First thing in the morning. They seemed to have plenty of things for you."

Enjolras leaned his head back again, this time in relief. "Thank you," he said. Then he added, very quietly, "I've eaten only a little bread in the past two days. It's—it's easier to bear one more night when I know they're coming."

Léon nodded, trying to be understanding. But he didn't understand. Not really. It had never happened to him, after all.

"I've always hated injustice," said Enjolras, still quiet. "But this is the first time I've ever really experienced it myself. Some people—some people have never known anything else. Injustice is their entire _life_." His chin dropped. "No wonder they are easy to oppress."

Léon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't know what to say, and the fact that the shackle was already bothering his wrist was making it no better. He imagined it staying there, locked, chafing against his skin hour after hour while he was hungry and tired and cold and friendless and trying to stay strong…

"How do you bear it?" he asked suddenly.

"Is there any other option?"

"Well…" Léon considered. "I guess I meant how do you…how do you not…You've stayed so strong!"

"I've done what I could," said the young defender of the people. "It was less than I thought I'd be able to, and I don't know how much longer—"

"Your friends are coming," Léon interrupted when he heard the edge of despair in Enjolras' voice. "First thing in the morning, they're coming."

Enjolras dismissed it. "They're students. They have class in the morning and if they don't attend they'll be fined."

"I saw their faces," insisted Léon. "They'll come. They have all sorts of supplies and maybe you'll be able to have some semi-private time with them—"

A bitter laugh. "Pleasant idea, but I am far from the favor of those who have the authority to grant that."

"But," Léon smiled, "I'm in favor."


	5. Chapter 5

Author's note:  
Well, I thought I had something to say. I don't remember. This chapter is different. Kind of. Amis have assaulted me the past few days...

It was a little past midnight when Léon was relieved. He wasted no time. Being an intrusion on his father did not matter to him tonight as he somehow managed to respectfully push his way into the head captain's office.

That night was a night of little sleep.

Enjolras' mind awoke the moment his body began to fight for rest.

In the Musain, Courfeyrac argued with no one in particular about the warming attributes of a thicker coat versus one that fit properly. It was just a deliberation, really. He couldn't very well send Enjolras two coats.

Joly made semi-intelligible remarks on drastic and sudden changes in body temperature, which Courfeyrac studiously ignored.

Jehan mused. He sharpened a pen.

Combeferre wondered whether sending politically-inclined newspapers would be considered too risky. He settled for cutting out two articles and slipping them inside folded lecture summaries. He made some slight notes on both articles and homework with Jehan's pen.

Bahorel was confused and indignant at his sending of school-related papers.

Grantaire spent the evening cradling a bottle of wine which he did not so much as open.

Captain Dubois did not know whether he was angry with his son or proud of him.

Enjolras did not know whether he had actually achieved sleep for any length of time, or only a vague state of drowsiness resembling it.

Léon did not know whether he more desired to swear or to pray.

When they left the café, the parcels and a number of amis ended up in Combeferre's flat.

Feuilly came by briefly with sensible food supplies. He took no part in the restless discussions, and turned to leave.

Then he came back, placed a big sou on the table, stared at it, pushed on it, and left.

Bahorel and Bossuet pushed on it until a knife popped out. They argued. Was it ingenious or ridiculous, and why was it Feuilly's?

Grantaire held his corked bottle and spoke to no one.

People left. People went to bed. Courfeyrac put a comb among the bundles, then took it out again. He went to bed very late.

Combeferre woke an hour or so after falling asleep and did not remember whether adequate money had reached their packages. He checked. He considered. He fiddled around, made a decision, and returned to an attempt to sleep.

Joly came in the middle of the night, sneezing, scolded by the landlady for making a commotion. He mumbled about the dangers of night air but had two very important brown bottles of medicine which he had to drop off. Bossuet, who had not yet left, accompanied him back.

Combeferre woke up again, somewhat later. He went to check things and found he had nothing to check. Grantaire was sitting, still awake, at the table.

It was morning when Jehan whispered to the landlady, knocked very softly, and came in, but it was still an irrational time of day. He found Grantaire asleep, a bottle of wine conspicuous among the bundles.

Jehan mused with his pen, which he found among Combeferre's things.

The sun had risen and amis had filled the room again by the time he wrote two lines on a very small piece of paper and looked them over with a mix of frustration and pleasure.

He put the paper in the pocket of the coat that Courfeyrac had decided upon.

At thirty minutes to seven, everyone began a discussion of how many and whom should be chosen to represent their party.

At five minutes to seven, the discussion quieted suddenly as everyone noticed the clock.

They had a feeling of lateness.

They all went.


	6. Chapter 6

Note: Apologies for the short and (I think) somewhat boring chapter. I just noticed a bit ago that it has now been a month since I updated. Oops. So I'm submitting what I have, and hoping to work on the next scenes very soon.

The door to the military and police station creaked unwelcomingly as Combeferre opened it. As he and his friends entered the silent room, their whispers stilled and their footfalls softened. There was a man in uniform behind the desk—not the young man they had met yesterday—and he did not speak.

Combeferre could hear his heart thudding in unexplained nervousness. The place was deathly still and the gaze of the soldier before them was almost hostile.

The silence must be broken, their visit must be explained, and Combeferre knew that he was the one to whom the task had fallen.

He cleared his throat. "We've come to visit a friend."

The soldier stared. Combeferre sighed. What a sight they must be, a group of eight jittery, sleep-deprived young men, laden with various poorly-packaged items, arriving in a still-gray morning to visit a political prisoner. _Eight _of them. Were prisoners even allowed to have more than one visitor at a time?

Probably not. But in any case, eight would be considered excessive. And the amount of supplies they had brought was probably excessive as well.

"Messieurs," said the man at the desk, "I cannot—this is most unconventional. I—"

"We were told we could see him." Grantaire's diction was unusually clear; in fact, he was spitting out his consonants. With a start, Combeferre realized that Grantaire had not drunk at all the night before. "We were told to come in the morning."

"Anytime after seven," said Courfeyrac. He looked pointedly at the clock in the corner. "Monsieur, it is seven-oh-three."

"It is beyond my jurisdiction," stuttered the soldier, "to allow such an unprecedented—"

A firm voice from the back of the group cut him off. "_Alors_, we will speak to the person within whose jurisdiction it falls!"

They made way as Jean Prouvaire came forward. He might have been, usually, a droll figure—ink on his cuffs, a coat that had been out of style for ten years, and a waistcoat that bore marked similarities to a medieval doublet—he might have been, most times, an unimpressive figure, with his slight build, his blushes, and his curling hair. But that was most times. This was now. Now, he was serious and he was daunting.

As he strode up to the desk and rested a fist on its surface, all the others instinctively moved to join him. Jehan's voice resonated.

"Take us to your superior officer.

"Um, captain? These men have demanded to see you."

The answering voice was both sharp and gentle, and had an edge of exhaustion. "Send them in."

Combeferre was the first to enter, Jean Prouvaire at his side. The captain, slim and dark-haired, nodded to them politely, then gave a slight start as the other six came in behind them. But he quickly recovered.

"Good morning, messieurs," he said. "My name is Captain Dubois. What do you need?"

"We've come to visit a friend," Combeferre said again. "We came by last night, but it was after hours, and we were told to return anytime after seven this morning."

"—And right now," interjected Courfeyrac, checking his pocketwatch, "it's seven-oh-six."

"Your soldier," said L'aigle, "told us that our visit was unconventional and beyond his jurisdiction."

"Thus we come to you," said Jean Prouvaire. "But we are not asking for any unconventional favor. Only for the usual right of visiting the imprisoned."

Captain Dubois looked over the group crowding his small office. "Tell me, then, who are you seeking to visit?"

The answer came from several voices. "Enjolras. His name is Enjolras."

"Ah," said Captain Dubois. "I see. But last night there were three of you, were there not? Now there are eight."

"Your prisoner, Captain Dubois," said Combeferre, "is cared for by many. Now, may we see him?"


	7. Chapter 7

I could make a lot of very typical apologies for not updating, but I'll refrain. I plan to finish writing this over the summer, but may not be able to upload it until fall due to limited internet access.

Enjolras' waking was abrupt, but he could not tell what had jerked him from his uneasy sleep. He sat up, restoring his numb chained arm to a more natural angle. He listened.

The footsteps of a group were echoing through the hall.

It sounded familiar.

It sounded like his friends.

Enjolras sat rubbing his arm and listened to the footsteps until they stopped.

The door opened and there was a stirring and rumble of noise among the other prisoners, because it was the captain who stood in the doorway.

And he beckoned to Enjolras' guard.

It's real, thought Enjolras. They're here.

He rose as his guard did, a little too quickly for his unsteady legs. He fought for balance as they went to the door.

They were there.

He stopped himself a moment, closed his eyes for continence and looked again.

Yes, they were there, his friends, clustered anxiously behind the captain with their eyes fixed on his face. He lifted up his chin and a small smile of hope crossed his sore face.

They did not smile back. He looked at face after face and saw worry, concern…even pity.

"Joly first," said someone, and there was a murmur of consent.

"I'll go with him," said Courfeyrac. He and Joly stepped forward.

Captain Dubois looked them over. "Remember," he said, "five minutes, watched and timed. Dubois, Lamont—" to Léon and another soldier from the group intermixed with the visitors, "relieve Mercier and escort the prisoner. Boulet, Durand, Martin, you three wait with these men. And you two—" he looked at Courfeyrac and Joly—"you'll come with me."

Léon led the way down the hall, feeling a boyish happiness at the calm glance of thanks that Enjolras had given him. He went into the proper room, small, empty but for a few wooden chairs. Following protocol, he fastened Enjolras' hands behind him and allowed him to sit facing the door. He pulled out his watch and tossed it to Lamont.

It had worked. Oh, it had worked.

When Lamont was not looking Léon met Enjolras' eyes and smiled.

"You don't look well," said Joly, the moment he came in the door.

"That is a pathetic understatement," said Courfeyrac. "Enjolras, what have you done to yourself? You look _horrible._"

He then promptly smothered any response that Enjolras might have given him in a massive embrace.

Enjolras' head fell against Courfeyrac's shoulder in answer. His sore body protested the arms that had been flung around him, but he stood still. At last Courfeyrac stepped back and moved his hands to Enjolras' shoulders.

"You do, really," he said. "Your clothes…what has happened to your cravat? And your face, too."

Enjolras managed another weary smile. "Hello, Courfeyrac. And Joly."

Joly studied him. "Sleep deprivation, I think," he muttered. "Aside from those nasty bruises…but still…hmm. Could I see your tongue, Enjolras, if you don't mind?"

"Joly!" cried Courfeyrac. "Really?"

Joly turned on Courfeyrac with what was meant to be a stern glance, but ruined it by sneezing. "You all—achoo—hem—'scuse me—nominated me."

"To help him feel better," said Courfeyrac, his stern glance somewhat more successful than Joly's. "Not to bother him about his tongue!"

"If I caddot diagdose," Joly proclaimed, then stopped to clear his throat—"then I cannot help!"

"If you _caddot diagdose_," mimicked Courfeyrac, "without—"

"I'd feel better if I ate something, I think."

They stopped abruptly at the sound of Enjolras' level voice and spun to look him over again.

"How long—" Courfeyrac began, but a glance from Enjolras hushed him.

_Guards, my friend. Be circumspect._

So Courfeyrac started over. "There's food," he said. "There's all sorts of things; the others have the packages. A coat…things. Medicinal stuff from Joly—no clue what it is, but ah well, what do I know?—Combeferre is sending you his lecture notes. So if you really are inclined to read about the differences between Roman and Grecian law—or something—Enjolras. Are you sure—?"

"Do not alarm yourselves for my sake. I am well enough."

They stared at him in cynical silence.

"But how long will you be here?" Courfeyrac finally burst out.

"The charges have not been formally brought."

"Then you're unjustly detained!"

"I know."

Courfeyrac was silenced again. "Thirty seconds," said the guard with the watch.

They exchanged goodbyes, and Courfeyrac and Joly were ushered out of the room.


	8. Chapter 8

An orange and yellow waistcoat came in the door a few minutes later, followed by a brocade doublet.

"They're checking the supplies still," said Bahorel apologetically, "and Combeferre is arguing with the captain about arrangements and legalities of some sort, so we can bring you nothing but ourselves, my good Enjolras."

"We hope you do not mind the wait," added Jean Prouvaire.

"What, when the company is this good?" Bahorel leaned against the wall and folded his arms, and Enjolras heard Léon stifle a chuckle. "How could he protest?"

Jehan rolled his eyes in Bahorel's direction, then sat on the floor and looked up at Enjolras. "I'd apologize for him, but you know, there's really nothing to say, so—"

"I resent that!" interjected Bahorel.

"—so you may ignore him, if you like."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Thank you for granting me permission, Jehan."

Jehan blushed at Enjolras' amusement. "How are you holding up? We tried to come the night you sent the note—not me, actually; Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Grantaire—but they weren't allowed in."

"Because it was after seven," said Bahorel. "Seven in the evening, what a time to close! Perfectly ridiculous, if you ask me."

"They didn't ask you," muttered Jehan, before looking at Enjolras for an answer to his question.

"I'm quite alive," Enjolras said, "though Courfeyrac and Joly appeared to be convinced to the contrary. Yourselves?"

"Rather unproductive without you," Jehan said. "Combeferre can't manage to subdue the chaos. And we've been worried, of course."

"And to good cause, too, it seems," said Bahorel. "I'm inclined to agree with Courfeyrac and Joly that you don't look quite alive!"

"You look like you have endured much," Jehan said softly.

"Much less than many," Enjolras replied. "My patience wears more quickly than I would have liked to believe."

"Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet."

Bahorel shook his head in exasperation. "Oh, quoting again? I know that voice; it's your quoting voice—"

"Jean-Jacques Rousseau," Jehan informed him.

"—and we hear it far too much, because you're always quoting!"

"Because, Bahorel," Jehan explained, "sometimes others have said things so much better than I ever could. Enjolras, you will be all right?"

"I will."

"Are you sure?" demanded Bahorel.

"I am sure."

And time was up. "I don't believe you," Bahorel grumbled, as he and Jehan went out.

Feuilly and L'aigle, when they came in, had a basket of food and a note from the captain. Léon unfolded the note, glanced at it, and handed it to his fellow guard, who pulled out a key and loosed Enjolras' hands.

"Take it slowly," said Feuilly, sitting down on an empty chair and handing him bread. "Bossuet, is there a cup in here?"

L'aigle shook his head. "He'll have to just drink from the bottle. Here, Enjolras." He held out the bottle of wine. "Combeferre said to have some."

"Combeferre said to have a _little_," Feuilly corrected.

"And I gave a loose translation," L'aigle countered. "Enjolras of all people knows not to take too much wine, Feuilly, especially on an empty stomach."

Enjolras accepted the bottle and drank just enough to moisten his dry mouth before devoting his attention to the food. He paced his bites with careful restraint. "Is Combeferre still speaking with the captain?"

"He's trying to play lawyer," Bossuet said. "And doing a rather good job of it, too; better than I would have done at any rate."

"Which is why you are not the one doing it," said Feuilly. "Combeferre is inquiring about the charges against you, Enjolras, but he is also pointing out the failures of the current prison system and suggesting improvements."

"He'll probably go home tonight and write a pamphlet," said L'aigle. "He usually does when he gets into these modes. _A Brief Overview of the Ills of the Modern Prison, together with Select Propositions for the Betterment Thereof._ Or something of the sort."

"It is an issue that needs to be addressed." Unconsciously, Enjolras fingered his sore wrist. "The spirit of injustice that pervades our society has corrupted even the institutions designed to spread justice, prisons and courthouses. While not entirely corrupt, the system is far from honorable and stands in desperate need of reform. There are those working in these institutions who desire to implement fairness and equality, but are constrained by legalities and customs and thereby forced to act against their own consciences. This should not be."

"Eat, Enjolras," Feuilly reminded him, holding out a few more things from the basket.

He obeyed. The food was a relief; he was already feeling his strength return. "Combeferre will need data. Feuilly, would you be able to access any first hand reports?"

"I don't know," said Feuilly, vaguely, but his glance told Enjolras yes.

"I can get into the law school records," said L'aigle. "I'm sure there are cases of the sort. And I'll take that friend of Courfeyrac's with me—Pontmercy—so I don't look like a blundering idiot trying to find them in a building I'm supposed to go to school in. You'd think I'd know that school like the back of my hand after all these years, but I don't do anything to encourage my memory."

Feuilly muttered something which was mostly unintelligible, but distinctly contained the word "ungrateful." L'aigle, hearing, looked uncomfortable, and the guard took advantage of the silence to tell them that they had one minute.

"I'm sure the law school records will be helpful," Enjolras offered. "The more specifics Combeferre has access to, the better. –Do you need to take the basket?"

"No, keep it." Feuilly got up from his chair. "It's almost half-past, isn't it? I'll be late if I take the time to return it."

"Late?" asked L'aigle.

"To work."

"Oh. Well, don't be late."

They made their way out.

Two pairs of legs. Two armloads of packages. Two pale faces.

Combeferre and Grantaire, sombre and exhausted. They put their things on the floor and sat down.

"You've eaten?" asked Combeferre.

"Yes."

"Good." Combeferre took off his glasses and absentmindedly cleaned them with his handkerchief. "Enjolras, the charges against you are grave."

"So I have guessed," Enjolras assured him.

"No, I don't think you have," said Combeferre. He put his glasses back on and met Enjolras' eyes. "You've been accused of threatening the king."


	9. Chapter 9

Enjolras stared. "I did not threaten the king. I have never threatened the king."

"Do you remember saying anything that might have been interpreted as threatening the king?"

"Do I usually say things that can be interpreted as threatening the king?" Enjolras asked. "To the best of my knowledge, I said nothing that I do not usually say in a preliminary explanation of our views. Less, even; I was aware of a few somewhat hostile persons listening and was careful to be circumspect. I don't remember everything I said, but Combeferre, I did not threaten the king."

"The captain has been spoken to by three different witnesses who were in the café when you were," said Combeferre, "and they all say you did. Think, Enjolras. What happened?"

He thought, but his usual clarity of mind seemed destroyed by the past few days. "What do they say happened?"

"That you made a 'generic republican speech' to the café at large, then sat down with a few men for further discussion—that they were at the next table. That you said—and I quote—'We give our king a scepter. We might better—' "

" '—give him a sword,' " Enjolras finished. It came back suddenly. " 'For by inviting one man to be sovereign over the many, we give him a power over life and death. The crown and scepter have long been the symbols of monarchy. I submit that a better symbol would be a sword—a sword too big to be wielded, for it is impossible for a single man to skillfully and justly wield the power of the government.' I remember."

"Context," said Grantaire blankly.

Enjolras looked at him. "Yes, context."

"We need to speak to the captain—" Combeferre began.

"The captain," muttered Grantaire, "probably does _not _want to speak to you, not again."

"—but I also have a lecture that begins in twenty minutes. The captain's made a few offers, Enjolras—a private cell, some basic furnishings—and he's given his word to inquire into your trial. Perhaps you remember the names of the men you were speaking to in the café, to summon them as witnesses? And…do you think you will be all right until afternoon, or—?"

"I will easily be all right until afternoon." Enjolras smiled at him. "Go to your lecture, Combeferre, and thank you for your help. Give my thanks to the others, too. To everyone."

Combeferre stood up. He handed the guards yet another note from the captain, then returned to clasp Enjolras' hand. "We hardly deserve thanks, having done so little for so admirable a friend."

Enjolras shook his head. "You devalue your efforts. If I remember the names of the men with whom I was talking, I will make sure to let you know."

"And if you remember, I will do my best to find them," Combeferre said. "Also, I am going to write a critique of the prison system, when I find the time."

"Feuilly and Bossuet have volunteered to find data for you."

Combeferre raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Oh," he said. "Good. And you can count on me being back late afternoon or early evening."

They said goodbyes.

In a short while, Enjolras was back in his original quiet cell, his hands free and the packages his friends had brought scattered around. He sorted through some of the things, then remembered that he was cold and put on the coat Courfeyrac had sent. Then he sat down against the wall with his hands in the pockets.

His fingers found something. A piece of paper? Probably nothing of importance, but he was curious enough to pull it out.

It was a tiny white slip, with two lines written on it. The handwriting had to be Jehan's—that distinct, decorative scrawl. Not just a scrap then. He squinted a little and finally made it out—

_To know abasement is to be_

_ A better friend to those abased._

His chin dropped to his chest, and he squeezed the paper reverently, desperately, in his folded hands. "My mother," he whispered to himself. "Oh, my mother. Is this the way to truly become your son?"


	10. Chapter 10

When he heard a key rattling in the door, Enjolras thought perhaps he had been sitting in the same position long enough that Combeferre had returned. But the knock that followed was not Combeferre's typical clipped, polite rap.

Who else would knock on a prison door, have regard for that small tribute to human dignity?

"Come in," he said.

It was the young soldier, Léon Dubois, putting his blond head around the door. "The captain's had a chair and a small table sent. Would you—"

Enjolras stood up and went to hold the door open. "By all means."

Léon maneuvered the items through the doorway. "I'm told to tell you that you have your friend Combeferre to thank. –Combeferre _is _his name, isn't it?"

"Yes, Combeferre," Enjolras said, moving the table out of the middle of the room. "And I have thanked him. But I believe that you, also, are deserving of some thanks."

"This?" Léon gestured. "I didn't—"

"No, of course not," said Enjolras. "Before. You assisted me, and perhaps at some risk—I would think it is not generally accepted to present unusual requests to your captain after midnight, even if said captain is your father."

"Oh, well…" Léon stopped. "What makes you say he is my father?"

"You have the same last name," said Enjolras mildly. "Besides, your features are not unlike."

"Oh," Léon said. "Look, I didn't mean to imply that you were obtuse or imperceptive—"

"—Not at all."

"—but few people connect us. Different mannerisms, different heights, I'm fair, he's dark, all that. But as to your thanks, it was nothing. An attempt to make an opportunity for justice and humanity, that's all." He shifted, seeming uncomfortable. "You know."

Enjolras looked at him, at the mild face which was at once boyish and thoughtful. "Why the royal military?" he asked abruptly.

"Why not?" Léon responded. "I've had my education. It's what my father does, and there are worse choices. Why not?"

"Did you consider whether or not it aligned with your principles?"

Léon's brow furrowed. "In the ideal it does, yes. Glory of France, protection of justice, upholding the law, guaranteeing peace and order, the like. It's different in reality, yes, but how was I to know that?"

"I see," said Enjolras, pulling out the chair and sitting down in it. He did not press.

But Léon continued. "I couldn't have known, really, about the corruption. The favoritism of the rich, the slanted trials. No one told me. No one told me that asking hard questions wasn't welcome, especially if the resulting convictions were contrary to orders. Not that it's happened to me much, but I've seen it. Acquaintances. Friends even. After a year or so there aren't many dissenters left. But…it was never me."

"And what will you do when it is you?" Enjolras' voice was quiet. "You believe in liberty; I can see that. In justice. What will you do when they ask you to quell insurrections against laws that you yourself find to be unjust, laws that you would perhaps like to protest yourself? What will you do if—"

"If I find, someday," Léon finished, just as quietly, "that I believe in the principles of republicanism, and a revolution comes which my duty binds me to fight against? I don't know, Monsieur Enjolras. I don't know."

Their eyes met. "The dilemma of duty against principle," Enjolras said. "The question of conviction against commitment."

"Is there an answer?" asked Léon. "How can one be more important or more valid than the other? I don't understand."

"It may be," said Enjolras, "that there is no right answer, because the question is wrong—because it is a confrontation that was never meant occur. But as for me, the answer is that I have a duty to my principles, and the strongest of my commitments is that which I have made to my convictions."

"And if duty itself were one of your principles?"

Enjolras looked at him again, carefully. "Then that duty would quite possibly be binding. But I do not know, citizen Dubois. I do not know."

"You mean I'll have to find out for myself, don't you?" Léon's smile was wry. "You mean I probably won't know, either, until it happens." He sighed and changed the topic. "You know, I've thought about asking to be switched to an artillery unit. I think I would do better there than I do working in conjunction with the police. It takes a mathematician, they say, and I've missed mathematics since I left school. And artillery is often only utilized in combat when there is actually a war."

"You've thought about asking to be placed in a position which you think will allow you to back out of the problem, then?" Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "I see."

"I find it to be a viable solution," Léon retorted. "Just because _you _wouldn't do it—"

He broke off, spun on his heel, and locked the door definitively behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I'd like to offer excuses for not updating, but I'll limit myself to an apology and a thanks to those who continue to follow this fic despite my inconsistency. I hope that it gives some of you some amount of pleasure to see it pop up again.

"I'd like to ask for the table and chair to be removed."

Captain Dubois stared across the desk at Enjolras as if it were the most idiotic thing he had ever heard. "Why, boy?"

"They are not regularly provided, are they?"

"No, your friend here—" and he gestured to Combeferre, who sat with them in the office, "made request."

"And I appreciate his solicitude." Enjolras would have preferred to first mention this to Combeferre in private, but they had been permitted to see one another only here. "But I do not want favors, captain."

"You do not want favors," he repeated.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I categorically object to inequity and partiality in any form."

"You _categorically object._ –Why?"

Combeferre spoke up. "Because charity is no substitute for justice withheld."

Captain Dubois turned to look at him. "St. Augustine? I'd have thought him a little old-school and traditional for students like you."

"Truth is truth," Combeferre said, "whatever you may presume me to think of the speaker thereof. Charity truly is no substitute for justice withheld—something which I should have remembered. I ask your pardon for my forgetfulness, Enjolras."

Enjolras smiled at him gravely. "It is nothing. Captain?"

He waved his hand in dismissal. "Yes, yes, I'll have them taken away. But come, there are more important things to discuss. You've been told by now that you are accused of threatening the king?"

"Yes, I have been told."

"And do you consider yourself innocent or guilty of this charge?"

"I know myself to be innocent."

"And on the broader charge of spreading anti-monarchic views?"

"Of that I am guilty, if guilt is to be assigned to simple free exercise of thought and speech."

"I have been approached by three witnesses who say that you did indeed threaten the king."

"They removed my words from their proper context."

"And that context was?"

"That of symbolism." He quoted for Captain Dubois the words he had recalled for Combeferre before. "Anti-monarchic, yes, and that I will not hide. However, it was in no way a distinct threat."

"So you would have France abolish the monarchy, if you could?"

"I would."

"Would you consider instigating that by the death of the king?"

"Captain," said Enjolras, "I would not presume to take the will of the people into my own hands in such a way. I would have the king brought to judgment, yes, but that does not make me an assassin."

"It still makes you a criminal, in the eyes of the law."

"The law is often corrupt, and has always been on some points fallible."

"And now you insult the law?"

"No, I do not, monsieur. I honor the law, insofar as it upholds justice and supports the rights of mankind."

The captain sighed in exasperation. "So. Anti-monarchic, yes; threat to the king, no. That is your statement, in essence?"

"Yes."

He picked up a piece of paper from his desk. "I've inquired into trial dates, and the courts are surprisingly calm at the moment. You may get a trial within two weeks. You'll be granted a defense lawyer—and just as a private word of advice, I strongly suggest you work with him. It's easy to see from brief conversation with you that you could easily be your own worst prosecutor."

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "All I have done is speak the truth."

"And been imprudently stubborn about it, at that. Look, let the lawyer make excuses for your actions. Let him play on the sympathy to your case. You're young; you're rich; they're not going to make an example of you unless you push them into it. We're looking at probably a two or three month sentence for the offense itself, if it's found credible that you didn't threaten the king. But if you keep talking the way you have, you could have that sentence lengthened to a year."

"Enjolras," Combeferre said in an undertone, "a year-long imprisonment on your part would be a quite a deterrent to many of your goals—our goals." He turned to address Captain Dubois. "Thank you for your concern, captain, and for putting in the request for a trial."

The captain nodded, then called for the guards who were waiting outside the door. "Take the prisoner back to his cell. His friend may speak with him for some few minutes, at your discretion. Oh—and remove the furnishings that were brought for him."

Combeferre sent Enjolras a concerned glance as they went down the stairs into the cold corridors of the lower level, but Enjolras simply shook his head to communicate that the temperature was not worth his concern. Enjolras' hands, which were tied behind him as they walked, were only loosed once the table and chair were removed from his cell and he was placed back inside it. The door was shut between them, but they were permitted to talk through the grating.

"Your lectures went well?"

"They did. I am sorry about the furnishings, Enjolras—I did not think."

"You did think, kindly and out of concern for my comfort. I simply find that there are things much more important than my comfort."

"And I know that, and should have remembered."

Enjolras hushed him. "Did I not already tell you it was forgiven? The matter is of no importance. This is, however: I have remembered the names of the men to whom I was speaking. Clavier and Rivoire, the first a student of law and the second of letters."

Combeferre produced a lead pencil and piece of paper, and wrote them down. "I'll find them. You need witnesses. And Captain Dubois was right on one point, Enjolras; you need to work with the defense your lawyer offers. If I'm allowed, I'll find you a lawyer myself, but even if you must use the one provided by the government, you must not jeopardize yourself through noncooperation. We need you back as soon as possible, to go on with the work."

He hesitated. "I cannot compromise, Combeferre. You know that."

"I know. But as Captain Dubois said, you're young, wealthy, enthusiastic—the simplest means of defense is to let the courts know beyond shadow of a doubt that they're at risk of creating a _cause célèbre_."

"I do not want to be a _cause célèbre._ I wish to be tried and sentenced for my actions and my actions alone, and not to be given lenience because of a sympathetic public."

"But if sympathy for you was raised, sympathy for what you represent would follow. I am not asking you to compromise, Enjolras. I'm asking you to be wise, to be cunning, to be political." He glanced at the guard, who was already growing impatient. "Promise me you will at least think on it."

"I will think on it."

"Good." They clasped hands briefly through the bars, and with a hasty farewell Combeferre turned and disappeared.


End file.
